Tulsa's own Dwight Twilley has more lives than your averagealley cat. The latest reissue of the Dwight Twilley Band's firsttwo albums is the fourth reissue for both since their originalpressings in '76 and '77, respectively. Every few years, someone atan indie label discovers the records, their eyes grow wide as 45sand they begin asking everyone they know, “Why isn't this stuffhugely popular? Why isn't radio saturated with this guy?'' Theythink they've found a pop music gold mine.

They have, of course. Trouble is, bad luck and delays causedpeople to miss these records the first time around and, well, it'shard to convince the masses of a second chance. Pity, because thesetwo records, particularly “Sincerely,'' are examples of everythingthat is great about pop music. The songs are immediate buttimeless. They spark with youthful energy without being base. Theyare utterly accessible but remain smart. “I'm on Fire,'' theopener to “Sincerely'' and Twilley's greatest hit with partnerPhil Seymour, was recorded the night Twilley and Seymour first setfoot in the Church studio here in town — their first time in astudio, period. “Let's record a hit record,'' Seymour said, andthey did. The chugging guitars, the layered vocals, the infectiousattitude — it's irresistible.

“Sincerely'' brims with that immediacy and remains one of themost exciting records of my lifetime. “Twilley Don't Mind'' startswith that same eagerness (“Looking for the Magic,'' featuring TomPetty's ringing guitar, is truly intriguing and unique) but slowsdown before the flying saucer “Invasion.'' (This “Twilley''reissue, though, features the best bonus tracks.) Still, theserecords are more than mere echoes of Abbey Road — they arediamonds lost in the rough, but they still shine.

The bands that best uphold the traditions of sex, drugs and rock'n' roll are those that don't holler about it. Your basic '80shair metal band was no doubt a staunch purveyorof that triumvirate of debauchery, but how subversive can your fansfeel about the experience when you're waving your fist in the airat every opportunity and giving away the game with a whooping,"Sex, drugs and rock 'n' roooooooooll!''?

The warm, wily wash of the Dandy Warhols' trippy roar is morecomfortable — and truly subversive. The sex in the feeling ofthese songs isn't employed as a domination strategy. The rock 'n'roll has less noise, more melody and, as Tom Wolfe might write, O!the kairos! the vibrations! The drugs are, well, definitely afactor — though the Warhols' hot single, "Not if You Were theLast Junkie on Earth,'' and particularly its garish, "Price IsRight'' kind of video, presents a more poignant case against herointhan anything the Partnership for a Drug-Free America could stickon your television.

This is, after all, a band that takes its cues from the VelvetUnderground and T. Rex — and they may be the first band of the'90s to claim those influences and genuinely deserve the prestigethey transfer.

Last week, Eric Hedford got on the phone to shed some light onthe Dandys experience. Hedford is the band's drummer and occasionalMoog noodler, and he cleared some of the haze surrounding theband's talent for mooching, its troubled effort making the currentalbum ("The Dandy Warhols Come Down'' on Capitol Records) and itschance defiance of categorization.

Thomas Conner: You're in Portland (Ore.)? How did you score thisrare moment at home?Eric Hedford: Three weeks in sunny Portland, then we go out foranother three months ... We'll be concentrating on the South,because it's winter. Smart, huh? Last winter we were touring thenorth, and we broke down in 70-below weather outside Minneapolis.We fired our road manager on the spot. We plan to hit Florida thiswinter in bathing suits.

TC: How's the tour been going?EH: We put 30,000 miles on our van. Someone told me that'sonce or twice around the whole planet. We've played with Blur, theCharlatans, Radiohead, Supergrass, Spiritualized ...

TC: Those are all British bands. I thought you were trying toavoid being called Brit wanna-bes.EH: There aren't too many American bands we're compatiblewith right now. Our mission is to find an American band to tourwith. The closest we got is this Canadian band we've got with usnext. I can't remember their name. (Note: It's Treble Charger, theopening band for the Tulsa show.)

TC: Do you enjoy life on the road?EH: It's a trippy way to live. We've got a contest we playcalled Guess What the Date Is. I never win, and I've got a watchwith the date on it.

TC: What's different about this tour and your first jaunts withthe debut album, ""Dandy's Rule OK''?EH: Well, since we just went around the world cramped in avan, not much. For this next leg, though, we've got a big, rocktour bus. I'm hoping it's going to have some big, cheesy eaglepainted on the side.

TC: Courtney (Taylor, lead singer) frequently confesses to theband's winning ability at mooching. Isn't that one of the greatfringe benefits of being a rock star?EH: All I know is that people are always giving us stuff. Idon't know if this happens with every rock band in America. Maybewe just attract people doing this. The people who really count arethe ones who give us things like clean socks or fresh food. Thosepeople become our friends. They'll get invited onto the bus. We getplenty of beer and stuff, but it's those things we don't get fromhome that win us over ... Someone actually gave us socks once aftera show. We thought that was the coolest thing. We threw away ourold ones.

TC: Is there an art to mooching?EH: Don't take advantage of the small people. Go after thecorporates, the ones with deep pockets. When we started gettingcourted by the record companies, we took full advantage of thething. We didn't say no to a single person. Every label inexistence was flying us back and forth to L.A. and New York, buyingus these ridiculous dinners and trying to impress us. You have tojump on that because once you get signed the label doesn't give youanything. Then you have to sell a bunch of records before they evensend you a bottle of champagne on your birthday.

TC: Wow, a spirit of hedonism in a band — how refreshing. Whathappened to that hedonism in rock 'n' roll?EH: A lot of bands just turned into a big bunch of pansies.I can't figure it out. But then, we think we party a lot and youlook at someone like Fleetwood Mac — and, man, we're nothingcompared to that. People back in the '70s, like Elton John, theywere crazy. They knew how to live. We work hard, too, though. We'repretty good at rehearsing, and we play relatively sober, saving thefun for afterward.

TC: How responsible of you. Well, if this reckless spirit iscreeping back into rock 'n' roll, does that mean grunge is dead?EH: The mentality lives on, though, as far as thatdo-it-yourself spirit goes. I mean, the grunge people were prettygood at not being pretentious at first, and I liked how most ofthem had a good sense of humor. Those are the things we stole fromit, and we grew up around it in Portland. We just never dressedlike that or tried to think we were cooler than everyone else.

TC: Did you consciously try to avoid being like the then-hotgrunge bands?EH: We started when grunge was still around. It was theopposing force for us, and we just tried to distance ourselves fromit — not because we didn't like it, really, but because it justwasn't us. Grunge died out and then we realized that the rest ofthe world thinks that if you're from the Northwest, you're a grungeband. They don't realize that there were a lot of different stylesgoing on here.

TC: There was some trouble in the making of the new record. Whathappened?EH: We had a false start. We got done with a big tour(after the first record) and didn't have enough material prepared.We thought we'd just go into the studio and do an experimentalrecord. It didn't work. Some of us were stoned all the time, andsome of us didn't care. Capitol heard the record and didn't thinkit had any songs on it, so we basically canned it.

We still have the option of releasing it. I don't know if we will.We went on tour again and wound up focusing on writing goodsongs. We still used some of the experimental things we'd learnedand just applied them to the new songs for this record. It workedout well. It's got new angles -- it's not just 12 pop songs. Thevideo helped make the single ("Not if You Were the Last Junkie onEarth'') pretty big, but now we've got all these people coming toshows expecting them to be all pop. We usually start a show with atrippy, psychedelic jam, and those people stand there not knowingwhat the hell is going on.

We like to take people on a trip — bring them up, bring themdown, make it move a bit. We don't have a set list. We just get afeel for what mood the crowd is in and start picking songs.Sometimes that (screws) us up, and sometimes it's incredible.

TC: You're a club DJ there in Portland, too, right?EH: Yeah. I was doing that Halloween night. I'm stillhungover from that.

TC: How does DJ-ing relate to what you do in the band?EH: When I'm a DJ, I don't have a set list, either. Youjust read the crowd. Also, a lot of my drumming comes from a DJperspective. I like that monotonous kind of groove. I'm not a bigrock drummer who likes to do big crashes and solos; I like justsitting in the background and grooving out. As a DJ, I got intothat monotonous thing. And everyone's saying that electronic musicand stuff is going to be this next big thing, but I don't likeseeing the bands live. They're boring. I do, however, love seeing aDJ live.

TC: Does the monotonous groove come from the Velvet Undergroundinfluence?EH: I haven't listened to them a lot myself. Courtney andZia (McCabe, keyboardist) listen to them. It's that same idea,though: the three-chord mentality and not a lot of changes in thesong. You just sink into that trippy groove.

Plus, a lot of it comes from the fact we're just not goodplayers. We're quite basic, and we admit that, but there's a lotyou can do with the basics and still have fun. That way, we're notup there worrying about the big, complex chord change that's comingup.

TC: And the Andy Warhol allusion in your name?EH: It's just a cool name. That whole pop art scene wasamazing, though. We're notorious for nicking things out of otherdecades and throwing them together, and that's what the pop artistswere doing -- taking what people recognized and presenting itwithout pretension. You can steal everything and put it togetherand say it's a brand-new creation. Then sit back and watch peoplerun around trying to categorize you.

TC: Been there, done that.EH: What, the categorizing?

TC: Yep. It can't be done anymore, though. I don't think thereare categories anymore, at least not on the scope for mass culture.EH: Wow. See? You just come to our show and let all thatfall away. Fall, fall away.

The Buddha, the Godhead, resides quite as comfortably in the circuits of a digital computer or the gears of a cycle transmission as he does at the top of a mountain or the petals of a flower. To think otherwise is to demean the Buddha -- which is to demean oneself.

David Byrne, it seems, is a machine.

He's moving around the stage like a plastic doll in some artstudent's stop-motion short film, like two successfully fusedhalves of the mechanized mannequin parts in Herbie Hancock's"Rockit'' video. He stepped onto the Cain's Ballroom stageThursday night upholstered in a pink, feathered suit, thick andbulky like the white one in the quintessential video for one of thedisaffected anthems of his former band — the song he's opening theshow with, Talking Heads' "Once in a Lifetime.'' His voice isclipped and cold, same as it ever was, and this old, cyclical lyricspews forth the same questions — where does that highway go to,and, my God, what have I done? — that none of us gathered for thisotherworldly, Harlan Ellison kind of display have found time toanswer.

He must be a machine. He hasn't aged. By the time the programmedjungle rhythms for "The Gates of Paradise'' (from his latestalbum, "Feelings'') begin tsk-tsk-tsking out of the timid speakerstack, Byrne has stripped down to a baby blue jumpsuit thatoutlines a very svelt and fit 45-year-old.

Grasping his guitar as the chorus riffs, he plants his feetfirmly just inches from the front row of wide-eyed, cautiousonlookers. He's so close that the peghead of his guitar nearlysmacks the hat off the head of Don Dickey, the cheshire-grinningsinger of Tulsa's own Evacuation of Oklahoma.

Byrne is right there in front of us. Two nights previous,barricades and burly security goons kept a crowd of fanatics a safedistance from Morrissey, a performer claimed by fans to be coursingwith real, palatable passions and, thus, to be esteemed as utterlyhuman. This David Byrne model requires no protection. He is amachine. He must be replaceable.

The five people on this stage are machine components, anyway.The keyboard player is merely pulling stops and turning knobs toallow the samples and programs to speak. The drummer plays a livesnare and two cymbals; the rest are computer pads. The plucking andstrumming of the bass and Byrne's guitar are only the beginnings ofthe sonic impulses, which — after numerous devices have encodedthe frequencies — are emitted as wholly new and unreal wavelengths.Even Christina Wheeler, a dancer and backup singer, takes herturn playing not an instrument but a portable station of soundprocessors and compressors that capture her voice and utilize it asthe breath of a larger, more layered sound. The machinery isco-opting the energy of humanity for its own artistic goals, thekind of live-vs.-Memorex dichotomy we've seen this year mastered byBowie and muddled by Beck.

But this is Byrne, and he doesn't seem to let the technologycontrol him. If I dashed back to the sound board right now andsevered the power cables with a quick hatchet chop, I'm convincedByrne would still be able to make his music. He wears a headsetmicrophone and dresses his new songs in doo-dad drapery, but thereis a deeper and more fluid sense of art in this display than inBeck's synthohol or Bowie's ice crystals.

Of all the classics to revive, Byrne starts playing the Al Greensong that gave the Talking Heads the first sign of a human face,"Take Me to the River,'' and the cold, jerky Devo concertatmosphere begins to thaw. For "Daddy Go Down,'' a roadie who hadjust been adjusting microphone cables reappears on stage with afiddle and balances the martial drum machine with Circean sawing.For "Dance on Vaseline,'' Byrne bops back to the stage wearing ablack T-shirt and a red, plaid kilt (his third costume change thusfar and, for many, the most titillating — a young woman shrieked,"He's wearing tighty-whities!'') and chuckles about the, um,slipperiness of love. People are bellowing, People are bouncing.People are bobbing. Byrne, the efficient showman — show-man --smiles and shakes and sweats. Machines can't do that.

The music swells and glows, like oceanic phosphorous — pouringthrough the sensual balladry of "Soft Seduction,'' foaming withthe borderless joy of "Miss America'' and flowing swiftly throughthe righteous riffing of "Angels.'' Finally, the set ends with asong based on that live snare drum, another Talking Heads anthem --"Road to Nowhere'' — recorded at the dawning of the derision ofthe post-boomer generation and written as a reductio ad absurdumargument against the prophesies of our detachment and cyberization.No, we may not know exactly where this highway goes to, but withByrne running in place and the rest of us unconsciously jumping upand down on the Cain's spring-loaded floor, it's clear that theroad leads somewhere and that Byrne is as good a piper to follow asany.

In fact, he raises us to such cheer and wonder that we won't lethim go. We call him back for an encore.

He returns, this time in the most astonishing costume I've seenon a public stage: a full-body skin-tight suit, with only eye andmouth holes, illustrating the body's underlying muscles and bones.Like an alien child of the gimp in "Pulp Fiction'' and educationaltelevision's Slim Goodbody, Byrne sings a slow, eerie version of"Psycho Killer'' while climbing across the stage in slow motion.After folding himself into a yoga posture, the band bows, exits,and the crowd demands more. Byrne returns in another tight jumpsuitfeaturing flames from toe to chest. The rhythm festival cranks upfor "I Zimbra.'' After a shouting, dancing frenzy, the band bows,exits, and would you believe Tulsa demanded a third encore?Exhausted and hoping to settle us down so that we'll let him leave,he returns and plays the new lullaby "Amnesia.''

In our newfound calm, we discover we are at peace. It feels goodto be alive and to be human.

The only logical place to go after Tuesday night's Morrisseyconcert was the Fur Shop, a downtown watering hole just blocks fromthe Brady Theater and owned by several fellow Morrissey fanatics.One of them, Mike Aston, floated through the bar wearing a dumbgrin and one of his dozens of Smiths T-shirts, boasting that heactually touched his hero at the edge of the stage.

The stereo attempted to play Morrissey's "Kill Uncle'' album,and the crowd just glowed. Collegiates and curmudgeons alikemaintained airy, blissful faces as they guffawed about theparticular moments of the show — "Did you hear him introduce theband as a Tulsa band?'' "He couldn't stop touching his hair!'' and"Look! I got a piece of a stem from the flowers he threw out!''Complete strangers stopped at our table to discuss the concert.

These were Morrissey fans being ... gregarious. Bring on themillennium.

The show was short but stunning — and I say this notsolely because I am a lifelong fan of the former Smiths leader. Ihad entered the Brady Theater with trepidation, steeling myself fora letdown. He's so pompous and so British, he'll hate Tulsa andmake fun of us, I thought. He's pushing 40, he's been looking tired— the publicity photos for the current album have been nothingshort of embarrassing — and he'll have lost his spark, I thought.By mid-show, I thought, I'll be throwing back into his face his ownlyrics from a song called ""Get Off the Stage'' ("You silly oldman, you're making a fool of yourself, so get off the stage'').

But from the first song, ""Boy Racer,'' when he licked his palm andcriss-crossed his chest with it, all fears were allayed. Clearly,the man who introduced sexual ambivalence and ambiguity to themainstream of popular culture maintains a surprising sex appeal.The spark is still there, and as the show progressed it grew hotterand hotter. The crowd, estimated at 1,800 and from throughout theregion, was putty for the next hour.

For a tour that is intended to support the new album,"Maladjusted,'' he nearly ignored that batch of songs, performingonly the single, "Alma Matters'' (which has more much-needed umphin concert), and the laborious street-crime dirge "AmbitiousOutsiders.'' Instead, Morrissey and his crack band tore throughmaterial from his last three solo albums, concentrating on 1994's"Vauxhall and I'' (seven of the 11 tracks).

And then came the Smiths songs. Having not performed the songsof his old band in several years, the appearance of one Smiths song— let alone two — was reason for intrigue. Perhaps Morrisseysimply missed singing some of the old standards. Perhaps the recentroyalties lawsuit against him from the Smiths rhythm section — acase that he lost and is none too bitter about — inspired thebrief retrospective. His lone encore, "Shoplifters of the WorldUnite,'' alludes to the former possibility, but the other choice,"Paint a Vulgar Picture,'' surely indicates the latter.

This was the moment midway through the show in which Morrissey'sreal passion surfaced. Until then, he had been dashing and suave,but his much-revered noble chin had been twisted in more than a fewsmirks and possibly derisive comments to the audience ("Thank youfor pretending to know any of these songs''), which screamed andtrembled with as much mania as any Morrissey audience I haveencountered. For "Paint a Vulgar Picture'' (which he introduced asa Glen Campbell song), though, any provincialism fell aside and wewatched the Morrissey of our heady days of youth — mildly bitter,endlessly clever, worthy of pity and simultaneously biting and flip.

"Paint a Vulgar Picture,'' from the 1987 posthumous Smithsalbum "Strangeways, Here We Come,'' was the first song in whichMorrissey abandoned his lyrical ambiguity and went straight for thejugular. Its ridicule of the entire music business, as well as thefanatical fan adoration that feeds him, still rings alarmingly trueafter 10 years — and it still backfires, turning the ridicule moreon himself than others. But if the lawsuit was indeed the catalystfor the kind of passion he poured into this old invective Tuesdaynight, perhaps he should be dragged into court before every tour.

But the substance of this show wasn't as titillating as thestyle, particularly for a majority crowd that likely had never seenhim live before. (This is Morrissey's first-ever appearance in theSooner state, and on this tour he's strangely avoiding Texas, farmore populated with Morrissey fans.) The mere presence of thegodhead before the masses incited the usual frenzy. Beefy securitymen fought a hard battle to tear away desperate young men and womenwho had managed to crowd-surf onto the stage and wrap themselvesaround their hero. It happens at every single Morrissey show, andhe hardly misses a note anymore. After one particularly boisterousgirl had been pried off his person, Morrissey sat down on the stageand actually seemed to marvel at the occurrence — amazed that itstill happens, even in Tulsa, Okla.

At least he still marvels. When he takes it for granted, that'swhen I start singing "Get Off the Stage'' in earnest.

Let's take a song from David Byrne's latest CD, "Feelings,'' asan example of our post-postmodern everything-and-the-kitchen-sinkera of art. Knitting together the unabashed, knee-slappin'country-and-western chorus are delicate, jittery jungle technorhythms. Sounds absurd, but it works beautifully.

Or "Daddy Go Down'' — a Cajun fiddle see-saws on a playgroundof droning sitars and tell-tale scratching. Walk into your localrecord label office and pitch that to a talent scout. See what kindof looks you get.

David Byrne is used to strange looks. In the 20 years since thedebut of the Talking Heads' first album, he has led that band andhis own solo career through a series of unbelievable and harrowingstylistic twists and turns, and every time he pitched one of hisart-student ideas, he met numerous odd looks. He's racked numeroussuccesses — personal (a wedding — at which Brave Combo played --and a daughter) and commercial (you know the hits — "Once in aLifetime,'' "Wild, Wild Life,'' "And She Was,'' etc.) — in those20 years, though, and there's no good reason to stop now.

"I'm used to the look of bewilderment,'' Byrne said this weekin a telephone interview from a tour stop in Florida. "I just haveto explain that I'm from the same planet you are — you just don'trealize how strange it is out there. You're living in some TV dreamworld.''

Fortunately, Byrne has reached a position from which he can acton his whims with relative freedom. For instance, his record label,Luaka Bop (a subsidiary of Warner Bros.) signs and produces artistsfrom around the world that normally wouldn't get looked at twice byAmerican labels. It cuts out the middlemen and those looks ofbewilderment.

"Look at the new Cornershop record. It looks like it's makingsome kind of impact, but if you went to someone and said, 'We havethis band with an Indian singer and their single is about AshaBosley, this woman who stars in Indian musicals, and we think it'sa hit record,' they'd look at you like, 'What planet are you from?'But it worked. Every now and then one of them clicks,'' Byrne said.

Cornershop found success for the same reasons Byrne continues toastound listeners: they both realize the patchwork potential of popmusic now. They mix styles. They bridge the gaps between musicalgenres. They play to our expanding awareness of the world.It's not intentional, of course. Byrne doesn't hunker down nextto his wall of gold Talking Heads records and plot ways to bettercommunicate with today's collage minds. His consciousness is acollage, too, so the music comes out that way.

Upon the release of "Feelings,'' Byrne explained it this way:"We all seem to have these musical styles and reference pointsfloating around in our heads, things we've heard at one time oranother that rub off on us — sometimes in small ways, as a feelingin a melodic turn of phrase, other times in the overall style of asong. There's a subconscious cut-and-paste going on in our headsthat doesn't seem strange at all. It seems like the most naturalthing in the world. It's the way we live now ... borrowing from thepast and future, from here and there.''

It's the way Byrne lives, anyway, and he said the ideas forstyle-melding sneak up on him.

"It doesn't come when you have your forehead furrowed, figuringout what to do with a song. It comes when you're not payingattention, when you're making coffee late in the afternoon andthere's a record playing in the background,'' Byrne said. " 'TheGates of Paradise' is an example of that. I had a jungle recordplaying while I was in the kitchen, and my ear caught something. Irealized that the rhythm I was hearing was the same basic beat ofthe song I had just been working on.''

In the making of "Feelings,'' those moments came with greaterfrequency, Byrne said, because of the way the album was made. Thesongs were recorded with musicians and producers all over the world— the dance trio Morcheeba in London, the Black Cat Orchestra inSeattle, Devo in Los Angeles, Joe Galdo in Miami and Hahn Rowe inNew York City. No big studios, either — everything was economical,in home studios.

That contributes largely, Byrne said, to the natural, relaxedgait of the songs. Nowadays, with advancements in technology andlower prices, home recordings sound as good or better than thosefrom big, complicated studios. This is not breaking news tomusicians, but it's a new dynamic to the musical marketplace.

"All artists have gone through this — you make a demo at homethat sounds great, that has this intensity and feel andspontaneity, and it gets scrubbed clean in the studio. They listento the final product and go, "There's something missing here. Whydoesn't this sound as exciting as the demo?' That's an old story,''Byrne said. "Now we're coming around to where if you take a littlemore care when recording the demo, you can release that as therecord.''

That's what Byrne did this time around. The result is an albumthat packs a suitcase of musical styles that ordinary musicianswouldn't be able to carry across the room, but the disc holdstogether with a surprising fluidity and coherence. It may be themost enterprising effort Byrne has tackled since the heady dayswith his old band.

"In the beginning, the Talking Heads were always kind ofbeat-oriented. Always in the living rooms and the loft there wasR&B in the air as well as experimental music and rock stuff. Thatresulted in the same fusion that I think I still capture from timeto time,'' Byrne said. "It's a natural tendency to end up puttingtogether the different things in your experience. You act out whatyou love. That's how different music comes into being. What we callrock 'n' roll is a patchwork of many different things. It's notlike Elvis Presley had no roots.''

Byrne prefers continuing on his own path, too. The other threemembers of the Talking Heads reunited last year without him,calling themselves simply the Heads and using different vocalistsfor each song on the resulting CD "No Talking Just Head.'' Badblood still exists between Byrne and his former bandmates, so hispart in the reunion was never an issue.

"Years earlier I had tried to talk to them, and they didn'twant to even talk to me,'' he said. "It's been going on for a verylong time. It just finally got to the point where I realized I wasnot in this as a masochist and that I don't need to be whipped andberated. Music should be a joy. It was time to move on.''

Even when Byrne gets venomous or angry, though, his musicsomehow maintains an air of cheer, optimism and hope. Even with aforeboding lyric like that in "Daddy Go Down,'' the song'srhythmic momentum instills a crucial air of confidence.In fact, it's that rhythmic element that pulls off that trick,Byrne said.

"You can dance to it,'' he said. "For me, you can saysomething very bleak and pessimistic, but if you counter it with agroove, it implies that the human being is going to persevere andsurvive. At least, that's what it feels like. Despite what ominousclouds gather, the groove and the life force is going to pull youthrough.''

David Byrne with Jim WhiteWhen: 7 p.m. ThursdayWhere: Cain's Ballroom, 423 N. Main St.Tickets: $20 at the Ticket Office at Expo Square, Mohawk Music,Starship Records and Tapes, the Mark-It Shirt Shop in PromenadeMall and the Cutting Edge in Tahlequah

These online "clips" reproduce a self-selection of my journalism (music etc) during the last 20+ years. It's a lotta stuff, but it only scratches the surface. I do not currently possess the time or resources to digitize the whole body of work. These posts are simply a bunch of pretty great days at the office.